


Pangur Bán

by sidewalk_chalkk



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Cursed Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Uses His Words, Geralt....... yearns..., Getting Together, Happy Ending, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Longing, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Sort Of, Timeline What Timeline, Witch Curses, playing it fast and loose with magic canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:33:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24836191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sidewalk_chalkk/pseuds/sidewalk_chalkk
Summary: Just under a year since Geralt and Jaskier parted ways on the mountain, Jaskier finds himself in some rather unfortunate circumstances. Lost in a forest, he tries to steal from a seemingly innocent cottage, but it is in fact, the home of a mage, who is none too happy about her things being stolen by a bard. Meanwhile, Geralt thinks he might finally be on the right track to finding Jaskier again, only for the trail to dry up abruptly, where he finds nothing but a surprisingly affectionate cat.(Yeah guys, Jaskier gets turned into a cat. They have to go thru some stuff before it works out again)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 47
Kudos: 542





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Aha I wanted to put my novel to the side before editing it so I wrote this:)
> 
> Pangur Bán is an old Irish poem about a cat... it's also the name of the cat in the Secret of Kells, but this story isn't based on that plotline, because idk where Geralt would fit... however...... I'd like to point out.. that Ashley turns into a white wolf several times in the film... So do with that what you will. 
> 
> Also I made up the town names I'm too tired to give this a location.
> 
> Anyway enjoy!!

Listen, the other men at the table were also cheating at the card game, so it wasn’t completely horrible that Jaskier decided to flash a winning smile and try to distract them while he discretely switched out his losing cards for some better ones, that were stashed up his sleeve. The pile of gold coins on the table was rather large, after all, and Jaskier was in need. 

Well, it was a mistake, he thought sourly to himself. 

As soon as one of the five burly men noticed a card corner peeking out from Jaskier’s sleeve – he was a little tipsy, in his defence – they immediately called his cheat. What a bunch of hypocrites!

He’d tried his usual routine of innocence, but the five men heard none of it. They’d promptly stood from the table, and Jaskier had tried to disentangle himself and bolt, but he hadn’t gotten to the opening in time. They hauled him out to the back alley behind the inn, where simply their grip on his arms hurt enough as he struggled against it. When they pushed him to the dirty ground behind the inn, Jaskier thought for a second, that they might just leave him back there, take the money he’d bet and call it a day.

They hadn’t. 

Rain fell from the sky now and Jaskier twitched as the heavy raindrops splashed against his skin. He was curled on his side, arms wrapped around his face protectively, as if it would stop the men from repeatedly kicking his prone form. He’d been in that position for hours now, trying to find some bit of strength that would allow him to lift his head and sit up. It was every bit mental as it was physical, and he was too miserable to overcome the pain mentally. 

He could feel blood dried up around his nose and mouth, where his own blood had spilled from as the gamblers attacked him. His eyes were squeezed shut for something to focus on other than the throbbing bruises across his torso, and it had been so long since he'd opened them he wondered if he would able to do it again. He was being rather dramatic, although it was accurate.

It had been far past midnight when he’d been deposited back there, and he was just hearing the sounds of morning. Doors opening and closing, people shuffling down the streets, birds chirping.

Then a shriek rang out from somewhere near him, and Jaskier twitched violently and jerked his head up, his eyes snapping open. Immediately, he was faced with a wave of nausea, but his vision stayed strong and he forced down the dizziness, facing where the shout originated. 

It was the stable hand from the inn he was behind. A tall, skinny boy with round eyes was leaning against a stable post, one hand against his chest where he breathed heavily, staring Jaskier down. 

“I thought you were dead!” He rasped. 

Jaskier felt a shiver run through his limbs as he began to feel them again. He tensed and untensed the muscles in the arm he'd been laying on, realizing how much that hurt. He opened his mouth and croaked, “Almost,” with a wry smile. The smile made him remember he had a headache on top of everything. The gamblers had given him a few hard hits, but it had still only been a few. Maybe two for each of them. Jaskier hadn't bothered to figure out exactly what was going on, as there were five strong men and only one of him. He’d mostly been trying to protect his face. He’d been marginally successful. 

The stable hand tipped his head. “We thought you’d gone...” he whispered. “We, er... Yve thought you’d left when those gamblers ran you out.”

Jaskier raised an eyebrow. “Ran me out?” He croaked, sitting up fuller. His legs were fine, it was the verticality that was challenging. “They _dragged_ me out, good sir. I didn’t have the mental capacity to think about leaving this place as they beat my head in.” He laughed but stopped abruptly as he felt his stomach lurch. 

Then he thought about what the stable hand said. “Why?” He asked, turning to the boy. “Why is it a matter that you thought I’d gone?”

The stable hand twiddled his thumbs. “Yve... thought you’d gone...” Yve, of course, was the innkeeper, and Jaskier worried now. What had happened that made the stable hand want to place blame on someone else?

The stable hand swallowed and continued. “The gamblers... sir... they, um, ransacked your room.”

Jaskier’s breath hitched. “What?” He croaked. Faintly he looked around him, seeing his lute tossed to the side, and his coin purse still hooked to his belt, but that was all. 

“They took your things, sir. Like I said, Yve thought you’d run –”

“Don’t care what the innkeep thought...” Jaskier groaned. “Are all my things gone?” He tried not to sound angry, but he couldn’t help the frustration edge in his voice. 

The stable hand only nodded faintly. 

Jaskier slumped closer to the ground, laying back down in the dirt, which was steadily becoming mud. He felt dejected. All he’d did was cheat a little at cards, and now he had been robbed of everything but what he was carrying. At least, he reasoned, he still had his lute and his purse, as light as it was.

Jaskier must have shut his eyes again because when he became aware of himself again, the stable hand was gone, it was brighter out, and the rain was harsher. At least it was washing the dried blood off his face. 

He groaned as he sat up, and with much effort, managed to pull himself to his feet. He leaned against the side of the neighbouring building, pausing as his head spun. He glanced down at his ruined clothes and the flakes of blood still on his hands with another, fainter, wave of nausea. He sighed dejectedly and gingerly picked up his lute from where it had been abandoned in the alley. Balancing on the sides of the buildings, he walked out of the alleyway. He glanced around, trying to reacquaint himself with his surroundings, and headed back into the inn. 

Yve was behind the bar, washing the table down from a busy night. He looked up with tired eyes as Jaskier entered. 

For a moment, they just stared at each other, neither side knowing what to say. Then Yve said, in a low tone, “I can offer you some coin for letting those men run off with your bags, but that’s all I can do.”

Jaskier shrugged. He didn’t really know why he shrugged, but he did. It stretched the bruises on his torso, and he winced, but the pain was duller, now. It was a faint pull in his muscles at every step, but nothing much more than that. He would survive.

“Can I have some breakfast?” Jaskier croaked. “And water?”

Yve nodded and disappeared into the back. Jaskier sat down at a table and set his head in his hands. He was alone in the inn, which was equal parts nice and oppressive. The air was stuffy from the previous nights' fire smoke and celebrations and the chair Jaskier sat in creaked loudly as he shifted his position.

Yve brought some fruit and bread on a plate and a tall glass of ice water. Jaskier ate it all quickly. Yve gave Jaskier the coin that he’d spent on his room the previous night back to him, considering he’d spent the night in the alley out back, and Jaskier figured that and the free meal was all he needed. Yve was, after all, just an innkeeper in a farm town. There wasn’t much he could do. The gamblers were long gone.

“Is there a market here, Yve?” Jaskier asked, noticing the rain had stopped, and the sun was out. He would need to attend a market to replenish all his supplies, like clothes and a bedroll.

“Not for another week,” Yve said. 

“Any place I can find some clothes in the meantime?” It was probably the most urgent, as his current clothes looked raggedy and bloody.

Yve shook his head. “The market would be where you’d find those things.”

Jaskier hummed. Well, that’s a problem, he thought. He wished Geralt was there, this whole thing would have been avoided if Geralt had been there, but Jaskier smothered the melancholy thoughts like he always does. Geralt wasn’t coming back for him. 

“Krekennis has a market tomorrow. If you hurry, you can make it there on foot in time,” Yve offered. “Their market runs until dinner time, too.”

Jaskier perked up. “Krekennis? Which way is that?”

“East,” Yve said. “You’ll pass by Duffy’s Fort, on the way, so if you time it right you could maybe stay there overnight. Although they don’t have an inn, you’d have to hope a local lets you stay the night.”

Jaskier shrugged. “I think I’m pitiable enough to be allowed a free night,” he joked. 

Yve shrugged. “It’s just a little town, and they’re cautious as all hell, so I wouldn’t be so sure.”

* * *

Jaskier shouldn’t have been so sure. 

The sun was long gone, and Jaskier nestled up next to a tall oak tree near the edge of Duffy’s Fort. When he’d arrived just a few hours prior, the townsfolk had all hid their gazes and avoided him like he was stinking of rotten meat. Sure, he probably didn’t smell _good,_ but the townsfolk clearly wasn’t running from his smell.

Maybe it was the bruise under his eye, or the mud rubbed into his fancy clothes or the tears in his doublet, but they all seemed to think he was trouble. Their eyes shied away from his, and they scurried off. 

Jaskier sighed. He probably did look suspicious. His clothes were clearly well-made, but he had the appearance to have been through hell, so he looked remarkably like he’d stolen his clothes off a dead man. He supposed that appearance didn't make people want to accommodate for him.

No matter. He had slept under the stars with no bedroll before and he could do it again. He would be able to reach Krekennis by noon the next morning where he could catch the last couple hours of their market, buy some supplies, and be on with his life. Soon, he could look back on this as nothing more than a slightly unfortunate circumstance. 

There was a faint wind, but it wasn’t enough to make Jaskier shiver. Still, in spite of himself, he cracked open an eye, and for a half-second, expected to see Geralt laying on his own bedroll close by. A now-familiar sense of emptiness flooded through his chest as he stared across the ground. Geralt was gone, he’d made it very clear he didn’t want to ever see Jaskier again, and there was no way Jaskier could ever travel with the Witcher again. 

Jaskier closed his eyes again, trying to push the images of the last time he saw Geralt out of his mind. On the mountain, after Geralt had flung those horrible words at him, Jaskier had said, “See you around, Geralt,” in a desperate attempt to tell himself this wasn’t the end. He’d faltered, for a second, and stared at the Witcher, hoping that that moment wouldn’t be the last moment they shared together. 

Jaskier breathed out again. It’s been almost a year now, and there was no sign that he would ever get to travel alongside the Witcher again. And that was that. 

* * *

In the morning, Jaskier was woken abruptly by a young boy shouting, “Ma! Look! A fae!”

Jaskier blinked his eyes open rapidly and sat up, glancing around.

A little boy with black hair was peering at him, from about twenty paces away. He was staring Jaskier down with wonder and fear in his eyes, and Jaskier peered back at him. Something odd caught his eye, and Jaskier's gaze fell on his lute, which was oddly resting a few paces in front of him. He distinctly remembered falling asleep with his lute on his lap, but he shrugged the mystery aside in favour of worrying about the boy who had awoken him. He would, however, had to approach the fearful boy in order to retrieve the lute.

The boy’s mother, presumably, appeared out from behind some trees. She was carrying a hand crossbow. Jaskier frowned, quickly inspecting her outfit, and deciding the crossbow was simply a form of protection against whatever might be lurking in the wood. Probably not fae, like the little boy was worried about. That was likely something of a story the boy had just recently heard more than anything.

Before Jaskier could say anything or move, the mother pointed the crossbow at Jaskier’s face and said, “Get out of here, thief!”

Jaskier raised his hands quickly, shocked at the sudden aggression. “I’m not a thief...” he said quickly. “And I’ll be leaving, if you’ll just let me grab my lute...” 

The mother straightened her position. “Get out!” She barked. 

Jaskier glanced between her, his lute, and the boy, who was peering at him with wonder, still. 

Jaskier took a breath and adjusted his position so he sat on his knees. The mother squinted at him, assuring her aim. "Get back," she whispered to her son, but he didn't listen.

Jaskier eyed up his lute again, then he lunged for it, grabbing the neck and retreated quickly. Not fast enough. He gasped in pain as a crossbow bolt plunged into his thigh. He looked down at it in shock, but when he heard the unique sounds of a crossbow being reloaded, he swallowed the pain, turned and ran from the protective mother. 

Admittedly, he thought glumly, the fast movement was probably not the best idea, but in Jaskier’s defence, he’d only just woken up. If he’d slowly tried to grab his lute he might have also been shot, but then he wouldn’t have had his lute… He pushed the “what if’s” away, they were useless; something he’s had to tell himself a lot recently.

Eventually, the adrenaline rush faded, and the wound in his leg began to throb. He stumbled down a faint valley towards a slow-moving river. Rather than sitting near it, he more so just fell to his knees, wincing as the crossbow bolt wound was jolted from the movement, sending waves of pain up his leg. 

He paused, gathering his faculties. The bolt wasn’t that deep in his leg, but he knew it would hurt like hell to pull it out. Gingerly, he ripped a piece of his doublet off and plunged the cloth into the river. It was relatively warm, and it washed the dirt of the ripped fabric away nicely. 

Jaskier sighed as the throbbing pain dulled from the lack of movement. It would flare up again as soon as he moved, but for the moment, he was still, and the pain was quieted. The bruise under his eye seemed so minor, now. 

When he decided the fabric was clean enough, he ripped off more pieces of his doublet and did the same to those. Leaving three long strips of cloth on a rock, Jaskier held the fourth and looked down at the wound in his leg. 

“Okay,” he convinced himself. “This is gonna be fine.” 

He placed one hand, that still held the clean fabric, around the entry wound, steadying his leg. Then, he took a deep breath, and before he had time to release it entirely, wrenched the bolt out of his leg. 

He bit off a scream and immediately placed the wetted fabric against the wound, seeing it immediately start to soak up the blood. 

He steadied his breathing, letting his shaky hand drop the crossbow bolt on the ground. He slumped backwards, the pain still throbbing all up and down his leg. Slowly, he grabbed another soaked fabric from the rock and held it above the wound. He removed the pressure of the first piece and squeezed all the water from the soaked fabric out, so it dropped water over the ripped flesh, rinsing out the wound. Regulating his breathing all the while, Jaskier repeated this with the other two pieces of fabric. Then, he dropped the blood-soaked cloth against the rocks and took a clean and dry one, folding it over and pressing it hard against the wound. Holding it tight, he took another long piece and wrapped it around his leg, fumbling awkwardly until he was able to use both hands. 

He leaned back, sighing. It hurt less now that the bolt was gone, and any movement wasn’t agitating it, but it still throbbed dully. His head spun and his throat was dry. The pain made him forget that he hadn't eaten since the previous morning. He blinked up at the sun. It was much farther in the sky that he would have hoped, but if he hurried, he could probably still make it to Krekennis for the market. 

Slowly, Jaskier washed the blood-soaked cloth and gathered the other clean one to carry with him, knowing he would need to change the make-shift bandages at some point. He paused as he stood up, relying heavily on one leg, and realized he had no idea where he was. 

When he’d ran from the protective mother, he’d barely noticed which way he was heading and had strayed far from the path. He frowned, looking up at the sun. It arose in the East, and it was still morning, so he turned in the direction of the sun and began to walk. Well, it was more so just limping with a side of hobbling, but it was all Jaskier could muster. 

* * *

The sun was just past midday when Jaskier felt a wave dizziness wash over him. He swayed to the side and steadied himself against a rough-barked tree. Glancing down, he noticed the fabric he’d used as bandages were soaked with his blood, to the point that his pant leg was also a dark rust colour. 

He swayed again and leaned his back against the tree so he could slide down it with little weight on his injured leg. 

He took a moment to still his breathing and calm his shaking hands, then he took out the two clean pieces of fabric and readied them. Then he undid the knot on the used bandages and pushed them off. He faintly wished he still had a water skin to clean the wound again, but he pushed the wish to the side as he bound his leg up with the clean fabric. He shoved the old bandages in his trousers’ pocket and vaguely told himself that once he got to Krekennis, he would buy himself some new trousers. He hoped he had enough money. At the thought, he reached for his coin purse to check, but his hand froze as he found no purse hooked on his belt. His heart raced as he patted himself down, smearing blood all over his clothes, feeling the belt loop where his purse usually hung, suspiciously empty. 

He shut his eyes furiously. Someone in Duffy’s Ford must have stolen it off him while he slept. It couldn’t have fallen; it was firmly attached to his belt. As he recalled the morning, the sight of his lute sitting oddly far away from him made sense. Someone had robbed him while he slept, they’d moved his lute and taken his coin. In the chaos of his morning, he hadn’t even noticed.

Dejected and bitter, he remained sitting by the tree for a while. He had no money, no change of clothes and no food. All he had was his lute but playing that wouldn’t get him much money while he was covered in blood. He was also still starving.

It was then that he registered the out-of-place scent behind him. He leaned up and glanced to the side. His normally acute hearing and smell were dulled as all his senses were focused on the throbbing pain in his leg, but when he focused on it, he could smell woodsmoke. 

As quietly and discreetly as he could, Jaskier stood up, peering around the tree. Nothing was immediately visible, so he stumbled forward, using the nearby trees as support as he followed the scent, feeling strangely like Geralt tracking a monster, except he was tracking a meal.

Soon enough, though, Jaskier’s eyes fell upon an innocent-looking cottage. A small trail of smoke was drifting up from the chimney. There was a stable off the Southern side of the house, but there was no horse in it. Either no one was home, or the owner just didn’t have a horse. Either way, it didn’t change the outcome; Jaskier was desperate. 

He stumbled forward and knocked on the door. No answer. He tried again. No answer. He cursed quietly. The woodsmoke was probably just the normal heating, and not someone cooking lunch. Jaskier moistened his lips and experimentally tried the doorknob. To his surprise, the door swung open. 

The inside of the cottage looked distinctly witchy, and alarm bells in Jaskier’s brain started ringing, but the smell of food overpowered them. 

He hobbled forward into the kitchen, finding bread and fruit on the counter and immediately grabbed an apple and crunched into it. It was juicy, and he relished in the feeling. He grabbed some more fruit and turned around, looking to see if there was anything he might be able to snag and then promptly sell in Krekennis, maybe some jewellery or trinkets. He crunched on the apple and fumbled through the shelves that covered every wall in the house. His shaky fingers landed on some gold-crusted earrings and he pocketed them. He found a circlet and a bracelet and shoved those in his trouser pocket as well. He faintly thought about the jewellery was now mixed in with blood-soaked fabric, but that was far from important at the moment.

Jaskier was just heading back through the kitchen to grab another piece of food when he heard the sound of a horse snorting and a stable door creaking. His heart leapt into his throat. He dropped the extra food he'd grabbed and stumbled out the door, leaving it swinging behind him. He heard the creak of wood and for a second, he thought he'd managed to escape, but the thick trees that would've given him enough cover to weave around and escape were just a few seconds too far away.

Something hard slammed into the small of his back and he stumbled forward, losing his footing and he fell face-first onto the dirt. Quickly, he rolled over to see his attacker, his lute strap slipping off of his shoulder so he wouldn't crush it. 

A tall woman stood over him, a black sling hanging loose in her hand. He frowned faintly at it. An odd weapon, but he supposed vaguely that she was out hunting when he’d tried to rob her. She was wearing riding boots and beige trousers and a shirt. She cocked her head at him. 

The alarm bells in Jaskier’s brain finally outshone the pain he was in, and he realized he was staring down a mage. Fuck, he thought. 

“You tried to steal from me,” she said softly. 

“I –” Jaskier didn’t know what to say. It’s not like he could deny it. “I’m just really hungry... I’ll give you your jewellery back...” he begged faintly. He reached an unsteady hand into his pocket and pulled out the jewels he’d grabbed, grimacing as he saw the blood smeared on them. The mage didn’t seem impressed.

Suddenly, she moved forward and crouched down in front of him, grabbing a fist-full of his chemise and looking into his eyes, curiously. Jaskier dropped the jewellery. “Oh, you’re injured…” she said. There was absolutely no mercy in her voice. 

Jaskier stiffened, grabbing onto her hands that held his collar, and rammed his head against hers. She gasped and stumbled back, grabbing at her now bloodied nose. 

Jaskier took that moment to roll over and get one knee underneath him, scrambling to his feet. He managed to get a few paces away, but the fates must have been against him that day. His injured leg landed awkwardly on the ground and he stumbled, losing his balance. He managed to catch himself but he fell, but the mage was faster. He felt his limbs stiffen like his feet were trapped on the ground. Faintly, his brain said, _this is what you get for trying to rob a witch and then breaking her nose_. He turned to look into the eyes of the angered mage. Blood spilled down her face, dripping down her chin.

“You rob me, and then _attack_ me?” She hissed; her voice malicious in every way. “Oh, little bard...” at the word, Jaskier realized he’d dropped his lute when he’d first fallen to the ground, and it now lay behind the mage. If he got away now, he would have no way of getting more money. That was, of course, _if_ he got away, for his chances of that were looking worse by the second.

The mage continued. “No one gets away with that...”

She approached him, twisting her hand as she did so. Jaskier gasped as he was pulled to the ground, his knees slamming harshly against the packed dirt, aggravating the wound in his leg again. He felt a fresh gush of blood spread down his leg and the pain momentarily took his breath away. 

“I don’t like to kill people for crimes,” she whispered. 

“Then don’t,” Jaskier croaked. “I… _love…_ not being killed. It’s actually a specialty of mine, you –” any attempt to speak was abruptly cut off as the witch clenched her fist and he screamed in pain, falling onto his back in the grass.

“No,” the witch said sternly. “You don’t get to have a say in this.” She hummed, peering around at the trees that surrounded her cottage. “These woods have lately been occupied by ghouls; did you know that?”

Jaskier could only faintly shake his head, his tongue felt heavy and his throat dry. He looked up at the blurry sky. Why was it blurry? He couldn’t tell if he was fading into unconsciousness, if he was crying, or if this was a spell.

“I think being ripped apart by ghouls is a horrid fate,” the witch mused.

Jaskier vaguely thought about begging for his life, but somehow, he knew that moment was far gone. He just stared up at the mage, telling himself that by staring his killer down, he was brave. “Or whatever happens to you... You will be helpless to it...” a thin smile crept across her face as Jaskier’s fate firmed in her mind.

She began to speak the words to a spell and Jaskier screamed again, feeling his bones crack and bend like they were reforming. His back arched off the ground, then just as suddenly as it started, the pain stopped. The witch paused. “These spells need a catch; did you know that? I can’t just turn you into a helpless creature forever, there has to be an… out. Or a couple.”

Jaskier's mind buzzed and his head lolled to the side. He couldn't move, from the spell or the pain, he didn't know.

She hummed a faint song, looking off into the sky for inspiration. “You may be freed from this curse… when the one you love tells you how they feel,” she laughed as if it was impossible for such a thing to happen. Jaskier had the vague ability to feel hurt at that. “And...” she said, continuing the catches Jaskier would have to fulfill in order to escape the curse. “When a fighter leaves a battlefield injured, but with no cuts or bruises...”

But that’s impossible, Jaskier thought, before realizing that’s exactly what the mage was doing. Creating impossible things to free Jaskier from his curse, so he would surely die a hopeless, painful death. 

“And,” the witch smiled thinly, having come up with the worst catch of them all. “And when a Witcher cries.”

At the back of Jaskier’s mind, he thought about the last catch. Another one he couldn’t fulfill, and in perfect harmony with his life. The mage mustn’t have known that, but in its own, horrible way, it was poetic. Then the thoughts were squashed out as the pain from the spell overwhelmed him. His bones cracked and changed, his skin split and his eyes blurred. He screamed, loud until his throat felt like was coarse and cracked, then he fell into unconsciousness. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone here read stardust by neil gaiman? Seen the movie? Just thinking about curses and stuff. No reason.
> 
> Comments/kudos make me super happy thank you:)))


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah thank you everyone who left kudos and commented:))) 
> 
> Warning which is also a slight spoiler so don't read this if you don't want that: Geralt thinks that Jaskier has died near the end and gets real sad about it, it's a little graphic and depressing and talks about death.. naturally. 
> 
> Also idk much about monsters so I hope any inaccuracies aren't shocking enough to ruin the story lol
> 
> Enjoy!

Geralt wasn’t having a very good day. Although these days were largely bad, so he barely even noticed the misery floating around his head like his own personal storm cloud.

Every single town he entered he did the same routine; ever since that day on the mountain. He would keep his eyes out for any familiar figures wearing extravagant doublets with puffy sleeves, any familiar sounds, and at the inn, he would ask the innkeeper if a bard had been through the town in recent days or weeks. 

He told himself this was just to make sure Jaskier was still alive, that it was nothing important, that it was just a question, but maybe it was something else. Okay, yes, it _was_ something else, but Geralt wouldn’t let himself come to that conclusion yet.

The town of Shalebrook was no different. He looked around the people that mulled about, leading Roach through the bustling streets. The people faintly strayed away from him, avoiding his brooding form and large horse, but that was regular to the point that he paid no mind to it. 

He left Roach by a hitching post outside of the inn, having no intention to actually stay there in the long term. Geralt spotted a stable hand, a tall scrawny boy with big eyes that was heading out, but he didn’t make any motion to tend to Roach, so Geralt ignored him. 

The inn’s main floor was occupied by dozens of patrons, having lunch and drinking, but the noise level was at a happy medium and there were still empty tables. Geralt walked up to the bar and caught the attention of the innkeeper. 

He approached and nodded faintly as a greeting. “Looking for an ale?” He asked, “Or a meal?”

Geralt gruffly said, “Ale.”

The innkeeper shrugged. “Take a seat.”

Before leaving, he looked at the innkeeper again and said, “Has a bard been through here at all recently?”

The innkeeper paused, shifting his eyes to the side to avoid Geralt’s gaze. “Well, minstrels come through here fairly often.”

Geralt tipped his head to the side just slightly, noticing the sliding gaze of the innkeeper. Then he shrugged it off, not worrying too much on the innkeeper’s avoidance; hee was likely just weary of the Witcher. He turned and headed towards a table near the wall.

The serving girl brought him an ale and he observed the occupants of the tavern while he drank. At one point, the stable hand came in and got something to eat. He chatted with the innkeeper, and during their conversation, the innkeeper faintly jerked his head towards Geralt, which prompted the stable hand to look at him. Both of them realized Geralt was watching them, and abruptly turned away. 

Geralt shelved the information. 

After he finished his drink, Geralt left a coin on the table to pay for it and left the inn. 

Roach looked up as he exited the tavern doors and into the air, and Geralt smiled faintly at her. Instead of taking her reins and leaving, though, Geralt walked into the stables around the side of the inn. 

As he expected, the stable hand was there, changing some water for the horses that were stationed there. He jumped slightly as he saw Geralt, looming in the doorframe. 

“Can I help you?” The stable hand asked, with surprising sturdiness in his voice, but Geralt still heard the shakiness hidden underneath.

Geralt raised an eyebrow. “What is so intriguing about my presence that I dominated your lunch-time conversation today?” Geralt asked smoothly, leaning a shoulder against the stable gate post. 

The stable hand swallowed, then he spoke. “Yve said you asked about a bard?”

Yve would be the innkeeper, Geralt figured. He nodded once at the stable hand’s question. 

“Well,” the stable hand murmured. “A bard came by here just a few days ago.”

Geralt perked up at that, detaching himself from the stable doorframe.

“His name was Jaskier,” the stable hand continued. 

“Jaskier?” Geralt repeated, his voice might’ve heightened in pitch if wasn’t an expert at relegating it, but his shock was etched all over his face, anyway.

The stable hand’s eyebrows knitted together, and his big eyes somehow got bigger, making Geralt frown worriedly. “He’s the bard you’re looking for?” His voice shook. 

Geralt nodded. “He is. What happened?” He could tell Jaskier’s visit in this town hadn’t been uneventful, from the way the innkeeper and stable hand avoided talking about it. 

The stable hand gathered his faculties and sighed. “There was this group of brigands that were staying at the same time as him...” he began, and Geralt’s skin crawled, but he said nothing as the boy continued. “And the bard wasn’t making that much money by playing his lute, so he gambled a bit in a round of cards with these men...”

Geralt felt his breath hitch. Jaskier was never one to play by the rules, he knew all too well. 

The stable hand confirmed Geralt’s suspicions. “The bard cheated at the cards. The men noticed.” His voice was low and quiet. He avoided Geralt’s eye. 

“What happened to him?” Geralt asked steadily. 

The stable hand shrugged faintly. “Yve thought the men just ran him out. So, when they returned a couple minutes after and... Well... they ransacked his room and stole everything he had. Except his lute, which he had on his person.”

Geralt felt his stomach drop. What had happened to him, then? That caused everyone to barely worry about brigands taking everything of his?

The stable hand cleared it up. “But in the morning, I came out to tend to the horses, and found him.”

Geralt’s throat was too dry to manage to say anything.

“He was alive,” the stable hand rushed, realizing how the story sounded. “But... hurt.” He swallowed. “The men just beat him up and left him here...”

“Where is he now?” Geralt said. 

The stable hand sighed in relief, happy Geralt hadn’t immediately attacked him at the news. “Krekennis. That’s where he was headed, at least. Trying to make it to their market.”

Geralt found he could only nod. 

“East from here,” the stable hand added softly. 

Geralt took a moment to breathe, convincing himself that Jaskier was fine. Then he said, “When did he leave?”

“Four days ago,” the stable hand said. 

Geralt nodded once again and spun on his heel. Roach looked at him quizzically as he undid the tether and quickly led her away from the inn. As soon as he reached the edge of the town, he mounted Roach and she galloped off. Hopefully, Jaskier was still in Krekennis. 

* * *

There was a small hamlet on the road to Krekennis, called Duffy’s Fort. As Geralt rode through the town, the townsfolk scattered. He frowned at it but paid it no mind. He rode past the buildings and continued onto the path through the forest between Duffy’s Fort and Krekennis. Roach slowed down through the forest, trotting down the well-used path, and Geralt glanced up at the sky, seeing he had about an hour until sunset. 

He made it into Krekennis just as the sun was cresting on the far mountain. As he dismounted and led Roach to the nearest inn, straining his ears for the sound of a bard playing inside, but he heard nothing. He led Roach into the stable by the inn and assured she had plenty of clean water and hay, before heading into the inn. 

It was crowded, plenty of people jubilantly eating dinner and visiting with friends. A place Jaskier would enjoy. Geralt tried not to worry about the lack of Jaskier inside. It’s possible he’d moved on already or was at another tavern. If there _was_ another tavern, Geralt thought, for Krekennis wasn’t a particularly large town, and this one was busy enough that it appeared to be the best, or the only, in the area. Either way, Geralt decided he would stay the night here and look for Jaskier in the morning. 

The bartender looked at Geralt and his eyes got wider. “Witcher!” He said and several more eyes in the tavern turned to him. Well, Geralt thought, if Jaskier was still in Krekennis, he would certainly find out about Geralt’s arrival soon enough. He hoped it wouldn’t cause Jaskier to flee immediately.

Geralt approached the bar. “I need a room,” he muttered. 

The man nodded fervently and grabbed a key from a drawer behind him, pushing it across the bar between them. “Witcher, we need your help,” he rushed. 

Geralt grimaced at him, people tend to need that, he thought. It’s always, fear Witchers until you need them. 

“Has a bard been through here recently?” Geralt asked, ignoring the barkeep’s words. “It would have been just in the last few days.”

Jaskier was on foot, so he wouldn’t have been able to reach Krekennis as quickly as Geralt had. 

The barkeep looked puzzled at Geralt’s subject change. “Um,” he paused. “No, not that I’ve seen.”

Geralt stared at him, his brow furrowed. Where was Jaskier, then? He shook the worry away. There was probably a perfectly logical explanation. He’d ask around and continue his search after dealing with whatever the town seemed to need.

“Fine,” Geralt muttered. “What are your troubles?”

“Ghouls!” The barkeep almost shouted. Geralt was keenly aware that the patrons were all watching this interaction. “The woods between here and Duffy’s Fort are overrun with ghouls. Anyone that goes too deep into the woods at night never comes back!”

The words made Geralt’s blood run cold. If Jaskier wasn’t in Krekennis, what if he’d been stuck in the woods at night? Maybe he hadn’t made it to Krekennis because he’d been attacked by the ghouls that are plaguing the woods? Geralt pushed the thoughts away, knowing they were useless and focused on the job at hand. “Who do I speak to about a contract?”

“The alderman,” the barkeep said. “He’s in the stone building just down the street. He’ll pay for the job.”

Geralt nodded. He handed over a couple coins to the barkeep for his room, then turned around. He would deal with the ghouls, find out if their existence was in any way linked to Jaskier’s disappearance, then he could come back. He tried not to think about what he might find in the woods with the ghouls. 

* * *

The bartender had claimed the woods were “overrun” with ghouls, but Geralt dispatched about a dozen of them, and when he braced himself for another attack, none came. It was nothing more than a sizeable number of ghouls. An average day of ghoul hunting.

Tension in his muscles relaxed. The hunt was finished. 

He hadn’t seen any sign that the ghouls had recently claimed a victim, or more specifically, he hadn’t found Jaskier’s lute deposited by the roadside, so he was confident the bard hadn’t met his fate at the hands of a dozen ghouls. 

Faintly, Geralt leaned back against a tree. The hunt was over fast, and the rush was wearing off. The moon was high in the sky, now, and he knew he should head back soon, but he took a moment to collect himself. 

He leaned his head against the tree and sighed. Then Geralt’s eyes snapped open as a leaf crunched somewhere to his left. In a second, he was on the defensive, sword at the ready, but he didn’t face another ghoul. He frowned, peering down at the source of the noise. 

A lithe cat, with brown, black and gold mottled fur and bright blue eyes peered up at him.

“Oh, hello,” Geralt muttered. 

The cat stared at him. 

Geralt sighed softly. Cats often ran from him, and he was surprised that this one hadn’t yet. He leaned down, sheathing his sword, and hesitantly stretching out a hand. “Hey there,” he whispered to the cat. “You really shouldn’t be here, you know. You’re just a few minutes behind getting eaten by ghouls.”

There was a moment when Geralt was sure the cat was going to make a run for it, but instead, the tomcat rushed forward and collided with Geralt’s outstretched hand, meowing and purring loudly as he rubbed his little face against Geralt’s palm. 

Needless to say, the Witcher was surprised. “Hm,” he said. 

The cat purred and raced around Geralt’s ankles as he stood up, meowing up at him as if trying to chat. 

Geralt watched the cat for some time, then he reached down and plucked him off the ground. The cat stretched out his little paws and froze as Geralt lifted him into the air. Held at eye height, Geralt peered at the newcomer. “You look clean,” he observed. “And... relatively well-fed.”

If he didn’t know better, Geralt might say the cat preened at the comment. “Your owner probably lives in Krekennis, right?”

The cat hissed and scrambled out of Geralt’s grasp, landing on all fours on the dirt, but he still didn’t bolt. 

“Alright,” Geralt murmured. “You can come with me back to Krekennis and I’ll find wherever you came from. Or just someone who’ll take you.”

The cat meowed again and approached Geralt, watching him with wide eyes. Geralt looked down, and the cat began clawing at Geralt’s boots and trousers, _scaling_ his leg. 

Geralt winced slightly at the sharpness of the claws, though it was nothing compared to some of his other injuries. Obeying the cat’s clear wishes, Geralt leaned forward and picked him up again, holding him under one arm, tucked against his ribs. The cat meowed in protest but stayed where he was held. 

With that, Geralt began walking back to Krekennis. 

* * *

“I don’t know of any missing cats, Witcher,” the barkeep said, watching the cat with amused eyes. 

Geralt sighed. After returning to Krekennis last night, he’d immediately gone to sleep, the cat seemingly unaffected by the new surroundings and falling asleep on the foot of the bed. When he’d woken in the morning, he visited the alderman and received payment for the job, quickly asked if anyone had seen Jaskier and found no leads, and then he’d returned to the inn for some food and to ask about the cat he’d found in the forest. 

“We do have a lot of strays here, though,” the bartender said, eyes still on the cat, who was laying across the table dramatically, as if trying to make himself as pretty as possible. “He might have been getting fed by someone.” The bartender shrugged. “Seems to like you, though, you should keep him.”

Geralt and the cat snapped their gaze over to the bartender as he spoke.

“What?” Said Geralt. 

“Mrrp!” Said the cat. 

The bartender shrugged. “It’s fun to have a cat around.”

Geralt sighed dismissively, and the bartender left. Geralt finished his meal quietly, the cat swatted at him playfully and Geralt watched him dryly. Eventually, Geralt slid a piece of dried meat across the table and the cat snatched it up and ate it quickly. 

“Great,” Geralt murmured. “Now I’m feeding you.”

After finishing his meal, Geralt visited Roach, and the cat trailed him. Roach side-eyed Geralt at the entrance of the talkative cat, but didn’t immediately stomp on him, so Geralt supposed that was a good sign. 

Geralt petted Roach’s mane. “No luck,” he murmured to the horse. “Jaskier’s not here. He must have skipped town fast, no one’s seen him.”

Roach shook her mane and the cat meowed loudly like he was trying to get the Witcher’s attention. Geralt looked down at the cat. “But we have this cat now,” he muttered. 

He reached down and plucked the cat off the ground, holding him under his front legs. “Right,” Geralt pursed his lips. “You can hang out in Roach’s saddlebags, I guess.”

Geralt shifted his hold of the cat to one arm as he unclipped a saddlebag. “Here you go,” he said as he deposited the cat in the bag full of clothes. The cat peered back at him suspiciously. He sighed. The shirts were Jaskier’s, actually; they things that Jaskier had forgotten to grab on the way down the mountain. Geralt had kept them to convince himself that he would find Jaskier soon enough. He laughed to himself. It had been almost a year, now. 

The cat meowed at him. 

“The shirts belonged to a....” he paused. “Bard that used to travel with me. He won’t mind if you shed all over them.”

The cat meowed again and shifted his position in an almost dismissive way. Geralt watched him for a second. “You remind me of him,” he murmured. The cat perked up at this, ears twitching and eyes wide. Then Geralt felt the familiar tug in his gut as he remembered the words he’d flung at Jaskier on the mountain. How the bard had muttered a quiet, “See you around, Geralt,” and turned away, alone. Geralt pushed the approaching misery away and repositioned the mask of indifference he always wore. “You’re both annoying and talkative and won’t stop following me,” Geralt finished. 

The cat flattened his ears and Geralt moved away to collect Roach’s reins. He tightened the stirrups and led her out of the stable. Before heading out of Krekennis, Geralt faintly glanced back at the cat. He was nestled neatly in the saddlebag, amongst the shirts Jaskier had forgotten after he’d left. Geralt sighed and left the town. 

* * *

When night fell, far away from Krekennis, Geralt set up camp by a river and cooked a rabbit he’d snared over a fire. He was alone, now, except for Roach of course. 

When Geralt had stopped to make camp, the cat had launched himself out of Roach’s saddlebag and raced away. For a second, Geralt felt a sting as the cat disappeared. Then he forcibly shrugged it off and continued setting up camp. 

Now, Geralt finished cooking his dinner and pulled it off from the fire to cool. Then he heard a meow from behind him, and when he turned towards it, saw the cat trotting towards him. 

“Oh,” Geralt felt a slight warmth in his chest at the sight. “You’re back.”

The cat purred and leaned up against Geralt’s leg. 

Geralt hummed and began to tear the meat he’d cooked apart. The cat made no gesture to steal it, and Geralt realized he’d darted off to go hunting for himself. 

The cat meowed again, digging his claws against Geralt’s thigh. 

Geralt glared at him. “What?”

The cat blinked and meowed. 

Geralt sighed. “I can’t understand you, you know,” he murmured. Roach snorted from behind him, and Geralt felt the strange sense that he was being judged. 

The cat stayed next to Geralt while he ate, and when Geralt laid down to sleep, he remained there. 

In the morning, Geralt felt a weight pressing down on his chest. He opened his eyes to see the cat had nested on top of him and was sleeping soundly. He frowned. The cat opened his eyes and looked at him, lifting his head and meowing. 

Geralt grunted and the cat didn’t take the message, but rather stretched out again, laying his head up by Geralt’s neck. 

He grumbled, but the motion was only mirrored by the cat purring. “You’re _exactly_ like Jaskier,” Geralt muttered bitterly, feeling oddly trapped by the cat. He perked up and meowed, massaging his claws on Geralt’s skin. He frowned and pushed the cat off of him - the claws were just too much. The cat meowed in annoyance as Geralt sat up. 

“He could never take a hint either,” Geralt muttered. 

The cat sat down again, lowering himself close to the ground and flattened his ears against his head, looking for all the world like a dejected kitten. He was, Geralt mused, except this cat was clearly an adult. 

Geralt sighed as he went about cleaning up the camp. 

“Maybe that’s what I should call you,” Gerald murmured, as he rolled up his bedroll and tied it back up to Roach’s saddle. The cat meowed loudly, trying to scale Geralt’s leg again. Geralt stopped this by plucking the cat off the ground and holding him at eye level. “Jaskier II.” The cat squirmed, batting his paws at Geralt’s face, but he wasn’t close enough. 

Geralt frowned. “That sounds like he’s dead.”

The cat meowed as if trying to contribute. 

“Wrong Jaskier,” Geralt decided. “Because the real Jaskier would have stabbed me already for holding him like this.”

The cat continued trying to swat at the Witcher, and Geralt felt fairly proud of his name. 

He deposited Wrong Jaskier in Roach’s saddlebag again and headed off. 

* * *

Hunting with Wrong Jaskier was weird. 

Geralt was tracking a werewolf, trying to find the cave in which it resided, and he heard a leaf crunch behind him. 

He swivelled around to see the cat following him, looking sheepish. He made a soft, _mmrp?_ sound and hunched close to the ground. 

“Shoo,” Geralt ordered. “You’ll get yourself killed.”

Wrong Jaskier meowed. 

Geralt sighed. He retraced a couple of steps and scooped up the cat, much to his dismay apparently for he began meowing and squirming indignantly. Geralt held the cat tight to his chest and walked back to his camp. 

He dropped Wrong Jaskier on his bedroll, where he flattened his ears and hissed at Geralt. “Stay here,” Geralt insisted and turned around. 

Another couple seconds passed and Geralt, ever suspicious, glanced over his shoulder. 

Sure enough, Wrong Jaskier was following him. 

Geralt sighed. He didn’t have time for this. “Fine,” he muttered. “But if you get eaten by a werewolf it’s not on me.”

The cat mewed softly, like he expected Geralt to say that, and continued trailing the Witcher. 

It was just one werewolf, so when Geralt finally found it in the forest, he was confident in his ability to take it down quickly. 

The cat seemed to know to stay away from the fighting, hiding amongst tree roots and behind bushes as Geralt and the werewolf engaged in a fight. 

It snarled ruthlessly and Geralt unsheathed his silver sword, its sides glinted in the moonlight. 

He waited patiently for the werewolf to surge forward, and it did. Geralt sidestepped the attack and sliced his sword upward, but it only grazed the werewolf’s flank. He danced backward, skillfully avoiding the claws and teeth of the beast and attacking in retaliation. 

The cat seemed to circle them, observing the fight in an almost note-taking fashion. But Geralt was largely focused on the snarling werewolf at hand, not the odd behaviours of the cat.

He plunged his sword forward, snagging the werewolf’s back leg. It growled in pain and thrashed out angrily, Geralt jumped back to dodge the claws, but the werewolf was getting scared. It slashed forward again with another claw and it snagged Geralt’s arm, ripping his shirt sleeve and leaving three ugly gashes on his forearm. He grunted in pain but surged forward, still, nearly unaffected. 

The werewolf pushed back, trying to get away from the monster hunter. Geralt twisted his sword around in his hand and slashed it forward. It dodged and snarled, but Geralt was faster. He plunged his sword up, through the werewolf’s jaw. When he pulled the sword out again, blood poured onto the ground and the werewolf slumped into the dirt, its eyes going dark. 

Geralt panted, backing away from the body on the dirt. He peered down at the gashes in his forearm, wincing at the ripped skin. It wasn’t that deep, it probably wouldn’t even scar, so he wasn’t worried. His chest heaved and he slumped to the ground as the adrenaline left his system. He could meditate for a moment, which would help the pain in his arm, then return to camp.

Wrong Jaskier was at his side in a second, meowing in shock and placing his paws on Geralt’s leg, looking at his injured arm. 

Geralt smiled wryly. “It’s just a scratch,” he murmured. “I’ll be fine.”

Wrong Jaskier kept meowing in fear, rubbing his face against Geralt’s side and purring in comfort. 

Geralt laughed quietly, rubbing a hand over the cat’s small head. He purred louder. “Human Jaskier did this, too,” he muttered. 

Wrong Jaskier perked up, looking at him with wide eyes. 

“Worried about me, I mean,” Geralt explained. “Even though he didn’t need to...” Geralt hummed. “He was always checking on me and worrying about me when I got injured on hunts. Or even when I didn’t get injured.”

Once again, the familiar coldness in his chest gripped him and he closed his eyes. His voice sounded foreign when he spoke. “He cared a lot about me. And I didn’t nothing but push him away... and hurt him.”

The cat was quiet, which was odd, and Geralt peered at him. “What?” He said. 

Wrong Jaskier stared at him. 

Geralt turned away miserably. He stood, deciding to head back to camp right away. He slowly moved forward and took out his sword to slice off the werewolf’s head. The cat seemed disgusted as Geralt dragged the disembodied head back to their camp, but he didn’t make any more noise. 

Back at the camp, Geralt tended to the injury on his arm, and fell asleep, telling himself he’d finish up the contract in the morning. 

* * *

In the morning, Wrong Jaskier was sleeping on Geralt’s chest again. 

Geralt sighed quietly, getting used to waking up with a cat sleeping on him. Wrong Jaskier was purring in his rest, and Geralt hummed, shifting his position, to get more comfortable. 

As he moved, Wrong Jaskier opened his eyes and meowed at Geralt. He stretched and hopped off, releasing Geralt as he did so. They’d almost gotten a routine together in the few days since Wrong Jaskier had started trailing behind the Witcher. It was eerily similar to what he’d had with Jaskier, but Geralt tried not to think about it.

Geralt smiled faintly as he went about packing up his camp. He scooped up the cat and tucked him in the saddlebag, then led Roach the short distance into the town, where he visited the alderman and traded the head of the werewolf for his coin. With that, they were off once again. 

They didn’t pass by any other towns during the day, but when they stopped for a break at midday, Wrong Jaskier darted off into the woods again. He returned a few minutes later, holding a dead mouse in his mouth. 

Geralt raised an eyebrow. The cat looked pleased. “You’ve got yourself some lunch,” Geralt observed. 

The cat looked at him suddenly, as if only just becoming aware of Geralt’s gaze. Awkwardly, the cat dropped the dead mouse on the ground and flattened his ears to his head. 

Geralt grimaced. If he didn’t know better, he would have said the cat looked embarrassed. “It’s fine,” Geralt muttered. “Eat away.”

The cat looked down at the mouse, then he hesitantly picked it up again, and turned away, walking off into the forest. Geralt watched him go. He continued eating the rations he’d pulled out for lunch, and a couple minutes later, the cat returned, no longer carrying the mouse. 

Geralt chuckled. “Wanted to eat alone?” He asked. 

Wrong Jaskier meowed softly. Then he sat down and laid against Geralt’s legs, purring like always. Absentmindedly, Geralt began scratching the cat’s head, and he purred loudly. 

Geralt was getting used to having a cat follow him around. He was cute. 

* * *

Apart from the cat continually following Geralt into hunts, he also posed some other issues. Most inns don’t allow pets, so when Geralt wanted a room so he could take a bath, he had to smuggle the cat in after pretending to leave him in the stables, which usually resulted in the cat looking rather smug, even with his little cat features.

Also, there was the time that Wrong Jaskier got lost in a market. Geralt paid him no mind as he trailed behind the Witcher, but after Geralt purchased some more rations for the road, he turned to see the cat was gone. 

“Dammit,” he muttered, eyes searching the ground around him and seeing nothing but the rough ground of the roadway, packed down by hundreds of feet. He began retracing his steps, thinking he’d somehow left Wrong Jaskier behind. 

After a few minutes of seeing nothing, Geralt started asking vendors. “Have you seen my cat? He’s black and brown and gold... and he’s got blue eyes and a pink nose.”

Most of the vendors said a quick, "No," and some raised a quizzical eyebrow at the sight of a menacing Witcher asking about the location of a cute looking cat. 

Geralt was turning away from asking someone, when a young girl shouted, “Mister Witcher! I found your cat!”

Geralt turned to see a young girl scurry up to him, holding Wrong Jaskier in a way that surely wasn’t comfortable. The girl’s mother raced behind her, jostled by the busy crowd, looking worried as her daughter confidently approached the Witcher. 

Geralt crouched down so he was at eye-level with the little girl and took the squirming cat from her grasp. Wrong Jaskier meowed and curled up in Geralt’s arms gratefully, nuzzling his head against Geralt’s neck. 

“Thank you,” Geralt said quietly. 

The girl’s mother caught up to them and grabbed her child’s shoulders abruptly. She nodded once, her mouth in a firm line, then guided her daughter away and back into the crowd. The girl waved faintly, either at him or the cat, Geralt didn’t know. 

He stood up and looked down at Wrong Jaskier, still curled in his arms. “Alright. No more free-roaming for you.”

The cat meowed in protest, but soon enough, he got accustomed to camping out on Geralt’s shoulders like a dramatic scarf. It probably wasn’t good for Geralt’s posture, but it was what was happening. 

There was also the time when Geralt returned from catching some game, he found the cat looking restless in the camp. 

He deposited the rabbit he’d caught and cocked his head at the cat. Wrong Jaskier sneezed. 

Geralt frowned. They were camping just outside of a town because Geralt never bought a room at an inn unless he needed to. 

Wrong Jaskier sneezed again. 

“Are you alright?” Geralt asked softly. 

Roach snorted. Wrong Jaskier sneezed. Geralt watched him. Then the cat started to cough, and Geralt’s brow furrowed. 

The cat looked up at him, almost shamefully with his ears pressed back and shoulder hunched, then he stepped off to the side, before continuing to hack and cough painfully. Geralt watched, slightly shocked, as the cat puked several times in a row. Geralt didn’t know what to make of that.

The cat coughed again and shook his head, seeming to recover from throwing up. 

Geralt, not sure what the hell was normal for a cat, scooped Wrong Jaskier up off the ground and hurried into the town. The cat meowed loudly at the manhandling but didn’t squirm. 

He got to the town quickly enough and entered the tavern, which was situated almost in the middle on the main road. As he walked in and headed to the bar, holding a cat against his chest, he became the recipient of several odd looks from the patrons.

“Do you know anyone that can... um... make sure my cat is alright?” Geralt asked the bartender, who raised an eyebrow. 

The bartender stared at Geralt and the cat he was holding. “Try to the apothecary?” He said after a long pause. “She’s got a few cats...”

Geralt nodded thanks and turned away. The cat meowed again, massaging his claws against Geralt’s shoulder, his ears flattened in embarrassment.

The apothecary was fairly noticeable in the small town, with its tall birch door and hand-painted sign. When Geralt pushed the doors open, holding a cat in his arms, the woman behind the back counter looked suitably shocked. The room was small, with the displays only pushed up against the walls.

The apothecary long brown hair tied up in a bun and was wearing simple work clothes. “Can I help you?” She asked. 

Geralt nodded awkwardly, not really sure what to say. “Um. The barkeep told me that you might be able to help me...” he hummed, thinking about his predicament. “My cat just puked a lot and I don’t know if that’s normal.”

The woman smiled warmly, a laugh lingering behind it. Geralt set Wrong Jaskier down on the counter, who immediately crouched down with his ears still flattened against his head. “Well, cats puke all the time, so it’s probably fine,” she said. She scratched behind Wrong Jaskier’s ear and he purred, relaxing against her touch. 

“Oh,” Geralt murmured. Now _he_ felt embarrassed, but it wasn’t his fault no other cat has ever gotten close to him for him to figure out what is and isn’t normal for them.

“He probably just ate something weird. Like grass, maybe, cats will puke if they eat something like that,” she cooed at Wrong Jaskier and he purred. 

Geralt grunted. “Why would they eat grass if they always throw it up?”

The apothecary shrugged. “They just don’t know any better.”

Wrong Jaskier meowed in protest, and the woman laughed. “What a cutie...” she cooed. She pet the cat’s little head and smiled. “Tortoiseshell’s are notoriously mean, I’m surprised this one is so kind to me,” she mused. 

“Tortoiseshell?” Geralt repeated. 

The woman nodded. “That’s his breed,” she smiled at the cat. “They tend to only bond to one person, too... that’s you, I guess.”

Geralt furrowed his brow. “Bond?” He repeated dumbly. 

The cat mewed quietly again, looking away from Geralt. 

The apothecary smiled. “Sure, like a mate,” she laughed. 

“Right,” Geralt said dryly, trying not to think about the fact that he named this cat after Jaskier. 

The cat meowed once more as if trying to contribute. 

The apothecary inspected the cat suspiciously. “Better keep him away from any female cats,” she mused. “Unless you want to take care of a litter of kittens.”

Wrong Jaskier meowed indignantly and Geralt’s eyes widened. Kittens? Oh, gods. He could barely take care of this one cat, never mind a bunch of little ones. 

The woman laughed and handed Wrong Jaskier over to Geralt again. “Your cat is fine; he probably just ate some grass.”

Geralt awkwardly took Wrong Jaskier back into his arms and nodded. “Thanks.”

* * *

It had been three weeks of having a cat follow him around, and Geralt was rather enjoying it, although he’d never admit it to himself.

When they made camp, Wrong Jaskier would quietly leave for an hour or so, and usually, return by the time Geralt was ready to eat his meal. Geralt didn’t really know what the cat did during this time, but he assumed he was hunting and eating and, perhaps, bathing, because Geralt noticed the cat seemed to never clean himself while Geralt was around. He didn’t think much of it. 

Also three weeks ago, was when Geralt had finally thought he’d found Jaskier, but the trail had abruptly run dry. Since then, Geralt noticed, he’d never heard any mention of the bard. 

Previously, Geralt could ask in towns and inns and people, often enough, would talk about Jaskier when prompted. They’d either heard his songs played by other bards, or, sometimes, they’d seen Jaskier recently. Every time someone had mentioned that they’d seen the bard in recent months, Geralt would admit, he’d always perked up with interest, asking where he’d gone, where he was headed, where he might be found. Most times, he could follow the path for a bit before running into a town where, yes Jaskier had visited and played in the tavern, but the people didn’t know where he’d gone. Usually, too, he was following Jaskier several weeks behind. The recent trip to Krekennis had been the closest he’d ever gotten to finding the bard, being apparently only days behind him, but that trail had ended. 

Now, with every tavern he visited, the people hadn’t had a bard visit, and hadn’t heard of anywhere a specific bard might be. Every time, the cat meowed at him, as if shaming Geralt for losing Jaskier as he did. 

* * *

Geralt took a contract for a wyvern in the mountains.

The town was a mining town, their buildings cascading up the side of the mountains like a river carving its way through the stone. And of course, for Geralt took up a contract there, miners kept going missing on their way to and from the mines. 

The alderman offered for Geralt to stay at an inn, but he’d denied it. He didn’t like having to pass through a busy area after a fight, especially if he was still affected by his potions. The only person who’d ever not run from him at the sight was Jaskier, and the thought made Geralt’s chest hurt. He missed the bard. 

Geralt set up camp near the edge of the town and began tracking the wyvern immediately, Wrong Jaskier trailing behind him like always. 

The hunt was exactly as Geralt had expected. He tracked the wyvern to its nest, hidden amongst the trees on the mountain, and as soon as he stepped into the clearing, he heard the screech of a wyvern. He drew his sword and readied himself for the attack, which passed quickly and easily. It was just one wyvern, and Geralt had taken down much worse.

He panted, collecting himself, standing over the body of the dead wyvern, when the hunt started to stray from the expected. He heard two things: the shocked meow of Wrong Jaskier, and the screech of a second wyvern. 

Geralt quickly ducked and rolled to avoid the attack of the swooping wyvern, but he underestimated its agility. Before Geralt had enough time to spin around and get his sword ready for an attack, the wyvern whipped its poisoned tail sideways, trailing behind the heavy body, and slashing through Geralt’s armour and into the soft flesh of his abdomen. 

He gasped in shock, but the adrenaline rush was enough to power him through the rest of the battle. He expertly dodged another attack and plunged his sword into the wyvern’s head, pulling it out as the beast slumped to the ground. 

Geralt leaned on his sword for a second, listening for any more creatures, but heard nothing but the wind rustling leaves. Then he looked down, where his free hand was pressed against the wound in his abdomen. He took his hand away and felt a faint dizziness wash over him as his hand came away soaked in blood. He would live, he knew, but the poison in the wyvern’s tail was a problem. He just needed to get to his potions, back at camp. Back... at camp. 

His legs felt tired, so he slowly slumped to the ground, telling himself that he could rest, for a bit...

Then the cat was at his side, meowing in his ear like he was yelling. He jumped at Geralt, pawing his shoulders and screaming, as much as a cat could scream. 

Geralt looked at him wryly. “I’ll be fine,” Geralt rasped, just wanting to lay down. 

Wrong Jaskier meowed in protest, pushing his little face up against Geralt’s legs. Geralt became vaguely aware that the cat was trying to push him back to camp. That’s where he needed to go. Back to camp. He looked over at his sword, laying to the side, and pulled it close to him. He pressed his hand against his abdomen wound once again and gritted his teeth as he stood. 

The cat meowed the entire time, and Geralt stumbled back to the campsite, leaning against trees and using his sword to stabilize himself.

At the camp, Geralt swayed for a second, but instead of sitting he just let his knees give out again. He slumped to the ground, falling next to where his bag sat. For a second, he just stared at it, his mind fuzzy from the adrenaline and poison that now pulsed through his system. Then the cat was pushing his way into the bag. Geralt frowned as Wrong Jaskier used his teeth to tug at the buckle and pull open Geralt’s pack. 

“What the hell?” he muttered. Cats probably aren't supposed to be that smart, he thought numbly, but the thought was far from important at the time.

When he saw some potions spill from the contents, he reached for the one he needed. Wrong Jaskier meowed again and Geralt uncorked the potion with his teeth, pouring it on his wound and gritting his teeth through the pain, his legs stiffening as another wave of shock and pain greeted him. He drank the rest of the potion. 

Dropping the empty vial on the ground, he laid his back against a tree and sighed. Roach, who’d watched the whole thing with worried eyes, neighed softly as Geralt relaxed. He reached for his pack again and pulled out some bandages he carried for situations like this. Slowly and steadily and with a lot of gritted teeth, Geralt pulled off his armour and shirt. 

The cat kept running around Geralt and the tree he was leaned against, meowing as if he didn’t know how to help. What a strange cat. 

Geralt had done this before, so he steadily unrolled the bandages and wrapped them around his abdomen, making sure there was suitable pressure on the scar. When he tied them up, he breathed a sigh of relief and fully relaxed against the tree. Luckily, the night was warm enough that he didn’t shiver without a shirt on. 

In a second, Wrong Jaskier was on Geralt’s lap, purring and mewling softly. Geralt smiled faintly at the comfort the cat gave him. He took a deep breath. 

“Thank you,” he said dryly, his voice hoarse. 

The cat perked his ears. 

“I might have just laid down back there... might not have gotten back up...” Geralt muttered. “If you hadn’t pushed me...” he looked down at the cat, who was watching him with wide blue eyes. “I don’t know if cats are normally this smart and empathetic or... if I just got lucky, but...” he sighed. 

The cat meowed, blinking slowly. 

“Your eyes are like his, too,” Geralt whispered. 

Wrong Jaskier tipped his head to the side in curiosity. 

“Your namesake,” Geralt explained quietly, feeling himself slip back into the usual melancholy dream whenever he thinks about the bard he used to travel alongside. “Jaskier. We travelled together... and he... he was my friend. Probably my only friend.” This was not the first time Geralt had mentioned the bard to the cat that sported his name, but Geralt found he had a hard time keeping the bard’s name off his tongue.

The cat was oddly silent, staring at Geralt from his position on the Witcher’s lap. 

“He was really talkative, like you,” Geralt hummed. “But he would sing, sometimes, and it was nice... but I never told him I liked it.” Geralt chuckled faintly at the memory. “It would have gone straight to his head, anyway, and he really didn’t need that.”

Wrong Jaskier meowed softly, staring at Geralt as if he was listening. 

“And he cared about me. Like, really cared about me. More than just physically,” Geralt’s expression turned sour as he remembered everything that had happened. Jaskier had only been trying to help. His words, “Well, that’s not fair...” echoed in Geralt’s mind. 

“And now it’s over,” Geralt said bitterly. “He probably never wants to see me again...”

The cat meowed and massaged Geralt’s leg softly, almost as if trying to comfort him. 

“Gods,” Geralt murmured. “I don’t know if I can ever forgive myself for what I did. I wouldn’t blame Jaskier for never wanting to see me again...” he sniffed faintly, digging himself farther into his pit of despair. Then he said, “I never really loved anyone like I loved Jaskier. And then I ruined it.” He found himself agreeing with his own words as they left his lips. Jaskier had been special to him, in many ways.

The cat stared at him with wide eyes. 

Geralt glanced down at his chest as he felt his medallion hum against his skin. A surge of adrenaline rushed through him, but when nothing happened, he realized it must’ve been simply the cat’s purring. 

Geralt grunted, looking up at the sky. It was dark out, now, and he was weary from the battle. 

He shifted his position, and the cat jumped off of his lap quickly, letting him spread out his bedroll and lay down. Wrong Jaskier curled up right next to Geralt’s head, and he reached out a hesitant hand and scratched behind the cat’s ears. He purred. 

“Goodnight, Jaskier,” Geralt murmured. He frowned at the way he’d skipped the normally placed “wrong” or “other” in front of the cat’s name, but the cat meowed softly, almost in agreement, so Geralt didn’t correct himself. 

* * *

Another week passed. 

Geralt steadily wandered the paths between towns, slowly travelling across the countryside. 

He was in a tavern in Mount Shannon, with Jaskier the Cat sitting next to him on the bench when a minstrel approached Geralt bravely. Geralt could immediately tell the man was a bard due to the pan flute hanging around his neck and the flamboyant outfit he was wearing so willingly. 

“You’re Geralt of Rivia?” The bard asked. 

The cat perked his head up and meowed at the sight of the bard. 

Geralt nodded, assuming he was about to be asked to complete a contract. “I am.”

“You travel with Jaskier the bard, yes?” The minstrel continued. 

Geralt frowned. This was an odd turn to the conversation, one that didn’t happen often. “I used to,” he said softly. 

The minstrel pursed his lips. “Damn. Do you know where he is?”

Geralt’s brow furrowed deeper. “I don’t.”

The minstrel sighed in frustration. “It’s just... he’s missing.” He sat down heavily across from Geralt without the Witcher’s permission and looked off into the distance. “I knew him from Oxenfurt, and I heard he was on his way here, so I stayed so we could...” the bard furrowed his brow as he contemplated what he was going to say. The cat meowed lowly. “Meet up,” the bard decided. He shuffled his feet. “But he hasn’t been seen in a month, now.”

Geralt’s mind whirred. A month ago, he’d arrived in Krekennis, expecting to see Jaskier playing at a tavern, but had found the townsfolk not remembering any travellers. 

“Where was he last seen?” Geralt asked. 

The minstrel shrugged. “I dunno. Somewhere West from here, I think...” the minstrel hummed. “Some traveller told me they saw him in Shalebrook, but I don’t know.”

Geralt’s heartrate stilled for a half-second as the words hung in the air. Shalebrook. Jaskier was last seen in Shalebrook. A month ago.

Quickly, Geralt stood. The minstrel looked shocked at the movement but didn’t say anything. He shrugged and turned away. Geralt scooped up Other Jaskier and hurried out of the tavern and into the stables. Roach side-eyed him as he placed the cat in her saddlebags and went about readying her for travel. In a few minutes, they were off. Heading back to Krekennis. 

Geralt didn’t know exactly what he was doing, but he knew something had happened to Jaskier in between Shalebrook and Krekennis and the first time Geralt was there, he’d done nothing about it. He couldn’t leave Jaskier behind again. 

* * *

It took just less than a week to reach Krekennis again, travelling faster and with fewer detours. 

Geralt didn’t stop in the town, knowing that they knew nothing. He travelled straight through the forest into Duffy’s Fort. Once again, the people there avoided eye contact and scurried away as he approached. 

Geralt dismounted and left Roach by the tree line, tethering her reins to a low-hanging branch. The cat meowed like always and jumped out of the saddlebag to follow Geralt into the town. 

The townspeople shied away from his gaze, taking detours around buildings to avoid crossing paths with him, but there was a man, a farmer by the looks of it, that was leading a horse down the centre of the town. Geralt stopped him; cutting off his path by stepping in front of him. 

“A bard came through here a month ago,” Geralt said. “Do you remember him?”

The man furrowed his brow, his eyebrows were bushy to the point that he looked like he was perpetually frowning. “No bards. Just brigands,” he muttered. 

The cat meowed, seemingly in protest.

Geralt raised an eyebrow. “What’s your definition of brigands, then?”

The farmer paused. “We’re a simple farming town, eh. People think… they can rob us. Any traveller is a brigand in my eye,” he glared at Geralt defensively. 

Geralt sighed. That wasn’t very helpful. There was, of course, the possibility that Jaskier hadn’t travelled through this town, but Geralt wasn’t convinced yet. “Anyone else I can talk to who doesn’t share the same opinion as you?” Geralt asked. 

The farmer huffed and shook his head. “That traveller that was here a month ago may have been carrying a lute, but we _all_ know he was a thief.”

Geralt’s eyebrows shot up. So Jaskier had been here.

The cat meowed again. The farmer turned his glare from Geralt to Wrong Jaskier.

Knowing that this farmer wasn’t going to give him any more information, Geralt stepped out of his path and continued on, looking for anyone else that might help. 

Weirdly, the cat started to trot in front of him, racing ahead of where Geralt was going, then rapidly turning off in another direction. “Hey,” Geralt called out, turning to try and grab the cat off the ground, but he avoided it. Other Jaskier slid down a road and stopped in front of a barn, where a tall woman was carrying a rack of dead rabbits and was holding hands with a little boy, leading him somewhere. Oh, Geralt thought, the cat was just following the scent of the meat.

At the sight of the Witcher, the hunter clutched the boy to her side protectively. She had a small hand crossbow slung around her back.

The cat meowed up at her and she barely glanced at the noise. The little boy seemed interested in the cat, though, and he tried to grab Wrong Jaskier with very little success. He kept meowing at the woman, skirting around her, probably trying to get a rabbit. 

“Witcher,” she said, with strength and protectiveness in her voice. 

Geralt frowned at her. “I’m looking for a bard,” he said, figuring he might as well ask this woman his cat unintentionally led him to. “Although I understand most people here thought he was a thief. Came through a month ago.”

The woman shook her head strongly. “I haven’t seen any travellers.”

The cat hissed.

Geralt frowned. She seemed to be hiding something. “He was carrying a lute and would have looked like he’d just come from a fight.”

The little boy glanced over at that. “Ma! That man in the woods had lute!” He said, looking up at her. 

“Hush,” she ordered. 

Geralt’s suspicion only grew. “You saw him? I just need to know what happened to him. He’s missing.”

The boy looked over at the Witcher with a light in his eyes. “I saw a man in the woods, and Mama shot him with her crossbow!” He sounded proud of it, almost, and his mother’s eyes grew wide as the words left his mouth. 

Geralt stiffened. “You shot him?” He resisted lunging forward and pinning the woman against the wall of the barn in anger, forcing her to tell him everything. 

“I thought he was attacking my son,” the hunter retorted. 

The cat meowed. 

“He’s a _bard_ ,” Geralt hissed, taking a step forward. 

The woman took a step back and bumped the wall of her barn. “I didn’t know that,” she replied sternly. “I didn’t _kill_ him, I just... scared him off.”

The cat meowed again but Geralt and the hunter paid him no mind.

“Where did he go, then?” Geralt growled. 

The woman swallowed. “Off. I don’t know. Probably to the river. He didn’t run down the trail.”

Ah, Geralt thought. Maybe he just got lost in the woods and ended up somewhere else. That didn’t track well, though, for Jaskier was no fool and couldn’t get that easily lost. Either way, it was a start. 

Geralt abruptly turned and walked back to the forest. He heard the cat mewling behind him, and he glanced back at him to make sure the cat was following close behind.

At the tree line, Geralt untethered Roach and led her into the forest, down towards the river. He knew any tracks Jaskier had left would be long gone, but if he was shot by a crossbow, there might be something left by the river. It was a long shot, but it was so far the only shot he had. 

After about a half an hour of searching, Geralt found it. A crossbow bolt, laying amongst the rocks near the river. It was rusted and bent, but clean to the point that it had clearly been sitting amongst the rocks by the river for a month.

Geralt held it in one hand and steadied his breathing, trying not to imagine every possible explanation for Jaskier’s disappearance. 

“What would Jaskier have done?” He asked the air in front of him, then he glanced at Roach for her input. She shook her mane as if saying, “I don’t know, you’re the one who’s in love with him.” He turned away from his very unhelpful horse.

Geralt considered the situation. At this point in Jaskier’s travels, he knew, he was trying to reach Krekennis. Likely, he knew Krekennis was East of Duffy’s Fort, so he probably just found East, and walked that way. Deciding it was the most likely outcome, Geralt did the same. 

He noticed soon enough that Other Jaskier was oddly silent. He glanced back to see the cat picking his way through the underbrush, and Geralt lightly scooped him off the ground and placed him in Roach’s saddlebag. “Here you go,” Geralt murmured, before turning back to the path. He kept his senses alert for any more signs of Jaskier’s travel. 

He continued East for about a half an hour, and then he registered an out-of-place smell: woodsmoke. Someone’s home. Geralt furrowed his brow, wondering if Jaskier would have also noticed the scent and followed it. Most likely, knowing that he probably hadn’t had much to eat since he’d been robbed. If not, Geralt figured, he could ask the resident if they’d seen anything. 

The cat meowed softly as Geralt began to head towards the smell of woodsmoke, hiding his head in the saddlebag. Geralt didn’t think anything of it. 

The cottage was innocent in appearance, but Geralt knew immediately that a mage lived there. He tried to keep his mind at ease at the realization, tried not to think what he might find in the mage’s unassuming home. He left Roach by a thick oak tree and slowly approached the house. There was no horse in the stable, but a thin line of smoke trailed from the chimney. 

The door opened when he pushed on it and he listened for any sign that the mage was inside. When he heard nothing, he stepped inside. He looked around the cottage, taking in the clutter of it and the eerie quietness. Mages' homes tended to be like that. 

Geralt kept walking, and like always, the cat trailed behind him. But he wasn’t looking at the cat. 

Geralt’s breath hitched when his eyes landed a familiar sight: Jaskier’s lute. It was discarded, almost carelessly, against an armchair. Geralt picked it up with shaky hands. 

Its long neck has been cracked, but it wasn’t broken; just mistreated. The cat meowed sadly. Then Geralt felt fire growing in his chest as he ran his hand along the thin sides of the lute, and dried blood flecked off. 

He swallowed stiffly. When he heard footsteps outside of the house, he immediately turned to it, rage growing inside him. He held the lute and stomped out of the cottage, barely aware that the cat was no longer following him. As he left the door, he spotted the mage closing the stable door. She heard him approaching and looked up, just in time. 

He discarded the lute and drew his sword in one swift motion, he finished closing the distance between him and the mage and pushed the sword up against her throat. She barely reacted to the threat, and she raised one perfectly manicured eyebrow. Her hands rested at her sides, calmly.

“What have you done with Jaskier?” Geralt growled. 

The mage blinked. “Who?”

“The bard,” Geralt hissed, pressing the blade closer. 

The mage still didn’t react. “Oh, I think I recall an interaction with someone who was carrying a lute...” her eyes drifted to the lute laying on the grass, just a pace away from the two of them. “That lute.”

Geralt growled. “What did you do to him?” 

The mage sighed. “I didn’t do anything that he didn’t deserve...” she hummed. “You see, dear Witcher, that bard tried to rob me of my precious jewels...” she blinked, trying to be the victim. 

It only made Geralt angrier. He thought about the second-hand stories he’d heard of Jaskier from a month ago. How he’d been beaten by a band of gamblers, had all of his possessions stolen besides his lute, walked the entire way here, been shot with a crossbow bolt by a hunter, all with very little if not no food at all. Of course, he’d tried to snag some things from an unsuspecting cottage in these woods. He wouldn’t have had any other choice. 

Geralt growled. “And so...” he felt his voice crack. “You killed him?”

The mage sighed, closing her eyes for a fraction of a second in disregard. “Not directly,” she said flatly.

Geralt pushed the blade closer, pushing her chin up. “Speak plainly,” He ordered. 

She twisted her lips. “I didn’t kill him. I just left him helpless... and he was surely killed by those ghouls that were in this forest a while back.”

Geralt felt a shiver run over him. His mind filled with images, like a dam breaking, flooding a helpless town. Visions of how Jaskier had died played behind his eyes, horrible and bloody as he was helpless to the ghouls that tore him apart and devoured his body. Whatever the mage had done to render Jaskier helpless to this kind of death, Geralt didn’t care. All he cared about what showing the mage a similar fate.

The mage lifted one hand fractionally, but Geralt noticed it and gave her no time to react or surrender, whatever she intended to do. Any mercy he might have shown was waved when he found she’d been responsible for Jaskier’s death. He lifted the sword back and slashed it forward at an angle, slicing her throat open. Her eyes widened, her hand twitched in its position, having almost had the time to cast a spell. Then her legs gave out and she crumpled. 

A second passed where Geralt stood over her dead body, then his legs wavered and he fell to his knees, dropping his sword. The mage hadn’t even touched him, hadn’t even thrown a single curse at him, but he’d never left a fight with this much hurt before. He felt his medallion vibrate again, but he ignored it. This was a mage’s cottage, there may very well be magic here. 

He slumped back, kneeling in front of Jaskier’s lute, the blood on the edge had been nearly entirely rubbed off, and the fracture in the neck was growing in size. This was now the last thing he had of Jaskier. The last piece of all the time he’d spent with the bard. His broken and bruised lute.

He heard a soft meow from behind him, but he didn’t look around. The cat peered at the body of the mage, then looked over at Geralt, who was holding Jaskier’s lute in his shaking hands. 

“He’s dead,” Geralt croaked. As he said it aloud, he felt a cold shiver run across his chest. His heart was heavy, his stomach dropped, and his mouth felt like cotton. He clenched his jaw. 

The cat meowed at him, approaching hesitantly. 

Geralt looked down at him. “This is my fault,” he choked out. “I pushed him away on the mountain and he....” he clenched and unclenched his fists. The tension in his body melted away as the weight of what had happened settled over him. “If I’d been there... for him... he would have.... he wouldn’t be dead now.”

The cat meowed. 

Geralt’s shoulders shook. He felt like he was drowning, desperately trying to reach the surface, to gasp for breath, but it was hopeless. His whole body shivered in despair, his calloused fingers tracing the lines of the mistreated lute, the one Jaskier had been gifted after their first meeting all those years ago. Geralt had been so unfair to him, every second they spent together, and yet Jaskier stayed by him, trusting, kind, and loyal. And loving. Jaskier had so openly and plainly loved those around him, and Geralt, although undeserving, was included in that.

The cat meowed at him, pawing at his hands and rubbing his face against Geralt’s arms. The Witcher looked at the cat, then he took a long, shaky breath. The cat seemed to be comforting him like Jaskier had the last time he’d lost someone. His ever-betraying mind replayed the last time he saw Jaskier. The words he’d said, the way he’d pushed Jaskier away. The bard had died with that memory being his last of the Witcher. Jaskier had died, thinking Geralt hated him, thinking that he was nothing but a burden. Geralt felt his entire body shake, a lump rose in his throat, his chest tightened, and the sting of a tear touched the corner of his eye. 

Witcher’s don’t cry, people say, they can’t. Just like Witcher’s don’t feel emotion. It’s all horseshit. Witcher’s just have control over things, their emotions are just one of them. 

Now, however, Geralt had absolutely no control. He clenched his jaw and held Jaskier’s lute against his forehead as hot tears spilled down his cheeks, running through the grime on his face. He made no effort to hide his weeping, and as tears spilled onto Jaskier’s misused lute, it only made him cry more. 

Faintly, he felt his medallion hum against his chest, but despite it being at a stronger vibration than the time just before, he barely noticed it.

He did, however, notice a glowing light from in front of him. He tried to open his eyes to see it, but it’s light intensified, and he was forced to shut his eyes again at the blinding shock. He stumbled back, dropping the lute, and covering his eyes with a forearm. Then the light died out. 

Geralt blinked, staring at the grass as his eyes readjusted. 

“Oh, gods,” a voice said. “Oh, gods, it happened. I’m back.” 

The voice was distinctly familiar, and Geralt raised his gaze and locked eyes with the source of the voice: Jaskier. The human Jaskier. He was perched, knees bent underneath him, completely naked, staring at Geralt with a look of amazement on his face. 

Geralt couldn’t find he could speak. 

“M... words... human words,” Jaskier said, his eyes darting around, looking down at himself, at the mage, at the forest, and Geralt. “Um. Hi Geralt,” he grimaced. “I’m not dead, actually, I just couldn’t... tell you that. Before.” He frowned, wondering if his words made any sense.

Geralt’s mind raced, but it supplied no explanation. All he could do was stare at Jaskier, completely alive in front of him. But he couldn’t be... He couldn’t be here. Geralt tried to think of there was any cause for hallucinations, but also came up empty. 

“Alright,” Jaskier muttered. “You’ll really talk to cat me more than human me? Alright.”

Geralt sucked in a breath and, all the while staring at Jaskier, reached a hand forward to touch him, telling himself something about the reality of touch. Geralt’s calloused fingers brushed Jaskier’s cheekbone softly, and Jaskier watched it happen silently. 

Then, several things clicked into place. First: the cat, and all his similarities to Jaskier and the fact that he is now nowhere to be seen. Second: the fact that Jaskier went missing in these woods and Geralt found that cat in these woods. Third: the mage’s revenge was to render Jaskier helpless and leave him to die, but she hadn’t seen it happen. Fourth: the two times Geralt’s medallion vibrated when there was no apparent magic, and the one time there was extremely apparent magic. 

Jaskier still watched Geralt with his cornflower blue eyes, his mouth slightly parted as if he had opened it to say something, but the words were lost. In a second, Geralt surged forward and engulfed Jaskier in a hug, feeling warmth return to his chest as he felt the bard’s rapid heartbeat against his own. 

Jaskier squeaked as he was pulled in, but quickly wrapped his arms around Geralt, too, and buried his head in the crook of Geralt’s neck. 

Geralt grabbed Jaskier’s face and held him back, staring into his eyes, reconvincing himself every second that Jaskier was here, alive. Jaskier smiled, grabbing Geralt’s hands softly, but he didn’t pull them away. A few tears of joy slid down Jaskier’s cheeks. 

“I can’t believe you’re alright,” Geralt whispered hoarsely. 

Jaskier grinned. “I got lucky. I ran into a Witcher.”

Geralt leaned forward, resting his forehead against Jaskier’s and steadied his breathing. 

Without needing any prompting from Geralt, Jaskier began to explain. “I did steal from her, to be fair, but I had been robbed of literally everything, and I looked like shit, so I couldn’t just go into the town and play at a tavern for coin,” he laughed softly, thinking back on how he’d ignored his intuition that said to stay away from the mage’s cottage. “And in revenge, she turned me into a helpless animal... not sure why she chose a cat, but she did.” Jaskier shrugged. 

Geralt pulled away again, still resting his hands on the sides of Jaskier’s face, studying him intently. Jaskier smiled dimly. 

“What broke it?” Geralt asked. 

Jaskier laughed softly. “Three things. I think she intended for them to be impossible, but...” he shrugged, tracing a finger down Geralt’s fingers and knuckles. “The last one, of course... was I would be free once a Witcher cries. I didn’t think that could happen, but it’s nice to know you care...” he twisted his mouth. 

Geralt peered at him. “You tried to comfort me,” he said dumbly. “You didn’t… Why didn’t you try to make me cry if that was going to free you?” He was vaguely aware that his eyes were still red and brimming with tears, but that was no matter.

Jaskier shrugged slowly, bravely keeping Geralt’s gaze. “I didn’t like to see you in pain.”

They stared at each other in the eyes for a long couple of seconds, then Jaskier continued the explanation. “The second one, was a fighter leaves the battlefield with wounds but no cuts or bruises... another impossibility, but I suppose that’s you again. With, er, emotional wounds.”

Geralt nodded, remembering the vibration he felt in his medallion. 

Jaskier let his eyes drift away from Geralt’s face as he spoke the last one. “And the first one that you got, was... eh… the one... that I love... had to tell me how they feel.” He swallowed awkwardly, unsure if he had fully understood Geralt’s words after the wyvern fight. “Wasn’t able to happen because... who would tell this to a cat, right? Lucky for me, you have a habit of talking to animals already, so –”

Jaskier didn’t get to finish the rambling thought. Geralt, ever the wiser of the two, shut him up easily by leaning forward and planting a firm kiss on his lips. Jaskier sighed, closing his eyes and leaning into the kiss. It was everything. Everything Geralt could have hoped for, everything he’d longed for, for so long, everything he wished he’d done. 

When they broke the kiss to catch their breath, they leaned their foreheads against each other again, breathing in the other in a perfect cadence.

Then Geralt said, “Why’d you eat grass?”

Jaskier coughed. “I – It looks tasty! I don’t know!”

Geralt smiled, closing his eyes and pulled Jaskier into the kiss again. 

* * *

Luckily, the mage had plenty of clothes in her home that she wouldn’t be needing, so Jaskier got dressed in some hunting pants and a shirt from Geralt’s pack, one that he’d spent the last month sleeping in, and was quickly presentable for the public. His old clothes were gone, but the mage had probably burned them, considering they were partially destroyed and covered in blood. Jaskier took note that the injury in his leg was gone, but he shrugged it off as an odd side effect. He hadn’t been injured as a cat, so he supposed, in some weird magic way, the human him got healed as well.

After thoroughly pillaging the cottage and setting the small horse free, Geralt and Jaskier abandoned the cottage to be eventually found by another weary traveller and done whatever to. 

Then they headed off back to Krekennis. Surprisingly, Roach seemed unaffected by Jaskier’s sudden appearance. Perhaps she knew all along. 

There was a market in Krekennis when they arrived and Jaskier laughed. “Look at that!” He scoffed. “The legendary Krekennis market. If I wasn’t so urged to get here, this whole thing might have been avoided.”

Geralt only hummed in response.

The bartender that Geralt has spoken to the last time he was in Krekennis was out buying food. He spotted the Witcher and waved faintly. “Witcher! What brings you back to Krekennis? Not more ghouls?”

Geralt shook his head. “No. It’s fine.” He said. 

The bartender noticed Jaskier, who was plucking idly at his lute strings, enjoying his human hands. The lute was horridly out of tune, but Jaskier was remedying the situation. “Is this the bard you were looking for last time?”

Jaskier looked up and smiled. Geralt nodded. “Yes, it is, in fact.”

The bartender nodded vaguely, then turned away to continue his tasks. 

“I remember that,” Jaskier muttered. 

“Hm?”

“When you went to leave Krekennis after finding me, but, as a cat. You told Roach you didn’t find me. You were all sad about it...” Jaskier snickered. “Funny, because you _did_ find me.”

Geralt recalled the event, recalled how the cat had meowed loudly at him as if trying to get Geralt’s attention. The more he thought about, the more he should have figured this out sooner.

Geralt nodded vaguely. He paused as Jaskier stopped at a stall to look at the bags the vendor was selling. After a couple of minutes of heckling, Jaskier left the stall with a simple, but classy, brown leather shoulder bag. He didn’t have anything to put in it, currently, but he would surely need it eventually. 

“What were you doing every time we stopped for camp?” Geralt asked. At Jaskier’s raised eyebrow, he elaborated. “You always left for an hour or so when I first stopped to set up camp. What were you doing?”

“Oh!” Jaskier shrugged. “Hunting, mostly. I also didn’t really want to bathe in front of you because... I dunno. It just felt weird. I had all these cat instincts but still my human mind... So, I knew how to hunt but I didn’t want to eat a raw fish in front of you.”

“Why not?” Geralt asked. 

Jaskier shrugged. “I dunno. I just felt like I should hold onto my last shreds of dignity.”

Geralt scoffed. “Right. Because you had dignity before you got turned into a cat,” he said dryly.

Jaskier shoved him playfully. “Of course, I did! I have so much dignity. I even had dignity on...” he trailed off, realizing he was about to say, “on the mountain,” and finding he didn’t want to. 

Geralt seemed to know what he was about to say, so he didn’t press it when Jaskier trailed off and stared intently at the ground.

Things weren’t perfect, quite yet. They’d only just been reunited, and the event that caused them to split up in the first place, now a full year ago, was hanging awkwardly in the air.

Geralt took the lead and slowly guided them out of the market, away from the other people but not quite out of the town, yet. Something lingered in the back of his mind, telling him that Jaskier still might not want to travel with him. “Jaskier...” Geralt began, unsure of where to start. He’d thought about what he would say when he finally reunited with Jaskier countless times, but all those instances had never been even remotely similar to the way their reunion had gone in reality. 

“It’s okay, Geralt,” Jaskier smiled. “I know you have a hard time with words... you don’t have to say anything.” He pursed his lips. “Also, you talked to me a lot when I was still a cat, so I think everything is already out in the air.”

Geralt swallowed. Jaskier was right, he supposed, but it didn’t feel right to just move on. He shook his head, his lips set in a firm line. “No,” he muttered. Jaskier frowned. “I... I mean. I don’t want to just move on.”

Jaskier’s eyebrows rose. His mouth shaped a perfect, “o”, but he didn’t get a chance to say anything. 

“Wait, um...” Geralt pinched the bridge of his nose and took a breath, trying to sort out his thoughts. Then he grabbed Jaskier by the shoulders, forcing himself to look the bard in the eye and said, “I’m sorry. What I said to you on the mountain was... unjust and cruel. You didn’t deserve it.”

Jaskier just stared at Geralt, saying nothing. 

“And I hope you are able to forgive me, although… I’ll understand if you can’t, and I’ll understand if you don’t want to travel with me anymore,” Geralt finished quietly. 

Jaskier’s expression changed from shock and wonder to a picture of love and kindness. “Geralt,” he said softly, his voice just barely above a whisper. “I forgave you like, as soon as I saw you in those woods. When I was still a cat.” He smiled softly at the memory. “I know I probably shouldn’t have, I mean, I was really hurt for a long time, but...” he paused, and Geralt watched him intently. “I knew, in my heart or whatever, that you didn’t mean anything you said, that you were just hurt, yourself...”

Geralt hummed, rubbing his hands over Jaskier’s shoulders. “But that’s... not an excuse.”

“No,” Jaskier agreed. “It isn’t. But I still forgive you. I’m a fool like that.”

Geralt met Jaskier’s blue eyes and felt warmth spreading across his chest. 

“I’ve been in love with you since, like, ever, Geralt,” Jaskier whispered. “You can’t get rid of me that easily.” He smiled at Geralt, a loving smile, a smile no one had ever shown Geralt before. 

Geralt swallowed a lump in his throat and gathered Jaskier in a hug, breathing him in. “I never wanted to… get rid of you,” he mumbled. “I hate what I did. I hate _myself_ for –”

“Don’t,” Jaskier murmured, muffled against Geralt’s chest. “Don’t hate yourself for what happened or… what you did or whatever you were going to say before I, so kindly, interrupted. You don’t need to.”

Geralt felt the corners of his mouth turn up in a smile. Jaskier leaned back and locked eyes with him. “After the wyvern hunt, you said that you might never forgive yourself,” Jaskier said, stating it matter-of-factly.

Geralt said nothing, for he found no words to respond to Jaskier.

The bard continued. “Well, as a cat, I couldn’t yell at you, but I did my best. Now that I can use real human words, I want to say,” he took a breath. “I understand what happened on the mountain. I didn’t… _like_ it, but I understand it. And I forgive you. A hundred times, I forgive you, Geralt!” he smiled widely. “So, you can forgive yourself, because there’s no reason not to.”

Geralt nodded faintly. “Alright,” he murmured, knowing that it’s what Jaskier wanted, and he found himself realizing he would do anything to make Jaskier happy. “I… I never want to see you hurt like that again.”

Jaskier kept smiling, soaking in Geralt’s gaze. He took a deep breath, noticing that his human nose was slightly less adept that his cat one. “Don’t worry. I survived following you around as a cat for a whole month. Nothing you can do will hurt me.”

The Witcher sighed, but it was a loving, endearing sigh, not an intolerant one. It was only _slightly_ edged with annoyance, which describes basically everything when Jaskier is involved. Geralt has only recently realized how much he adores that about the bard. “You won’t start licking yourself, will you?” Geralt teased.

Jaskier scoffed. “How dare! I remember how to bathe like a human,” he screwed up his face but didn’t move from his position wrapped around Geralt. Then he said, “I’d love to travel alongside you again if that’s alright.”

“Yes, it’s alright,” Geralt said instantly. “It’s more than alright. It’s…” he paused, unsure of what to say. Jaskier smiled, knowing Geralt was struggling to find the right words. “Perfect,” Geralt decided on, and Jaskier’s smile grew.

“Also, about what you said after the wyvern fight…” Jaskier snickered. “I totally knew you secretly liked my singing, you big _softie_.”

Geralt should have whacked him, or something of the sort, but instead, he just kissed him. It was everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks [AlienBro](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlienBro/pseuds/AlienBro) for beta'ing this story:)
> 
> You can find me on [ Tumblr ](https://crypticlesbo.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Comments/kudos make me super happy:))  
> Thank you everyone for reading and I hope you enjoyed it!


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